Page 15 of Flashpoint
Silence settles between us, but it's not uncomfortable. The evening light has gone golden through the windows, painting everything warm. Riley's sweater has slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing a strip of collarbone I'm definitely not staring at.
I'm absolutely staring at it.
"We should work on the talking points," she says, not moving toward the folder on my coffee table. "The school visit's in four days."
"Plenty of time."
"Hazel sent a very detailed schedule."
"Hazel sends detailed schedules for opening emails. We're fine."
Her teeth catch her lower lip. I've cataloged this gesture too—nervous habit, usually appears when she's thinking hard about something she doesn't want to say out loud.
"Aiden." She says my name like it costs her something. "What's happening here?"
"What do you mean?"
"This." She gestures between us. "You making me exceptional coffee. Me sitting on your couch without fantasizing about setting your Instagram on fire. The fact that I don't actively want to murder you for the first time in three years."
"Progress?"
"I'm serious."
"I know you are." I set down my cup and shift closer—just a few inches, not crowding, but reducing the distance. "Honestly? I don't know what's happening. I just know that somewhere between the warehouse and Riverside Park, things changed." I hold her gaze. "For me, at least."
She doesn't look away. Doesn't deflect or retreat behind professional distance. Just watches me with those sharp green eyes like she's analyzing evidence she didn't expectto find.
"For me too," she says quietly. "And it's terrifying."
"Yeah." My voice comes out rough. "It really is."
The moment stretches. Lamplight catches her hair, turning it shades of copper and gold. Her fingers aren't quite steady on the coffee cup. We're even closer now than when I first shifted toward her—somehow we've drifted together without either of us noticing.
Her eyes drop to my mouth.
Mine drop to hers.
I should crack a joke. Defuse this. Be smart.
Instead, I lean closer.
"Riley—"
Her phone explodes with the most aggressive ringtone I've ever heard—some kind of emergency klaxon that makes us both jump like guilty teenagers.
"Work." She fumbles for it, cheeks flaming. "I have to—sorry?—"
"Take it."
She answers, and I watch her expression shift from embarrassed to focused to grim in three seconds flat. Whatever this call is, it's not good news.
"When?" She's already standing, her whole demeanor snapping back to professional mode. "Howmuch damage?" Pause. "Text me the address. I'll be there in twenty."
She hangs up and reaches for her jacket in one fluid motion. "Commercial fire downtown. The building's still smoldering, and they want an investigator on scene before evidence degrades. The on-call guy's out sick."
"I'll drive you."
"You don't have to?—"
